


Penance (What He Wants)

by mslilylashes



Series: the Final Form of Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dark John Watson, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19432657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mslilylashes/pseuds/mslilylashes
Summary: ‘It’s okay... Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled; I killed his wife.’John moves back into Baker Street after Mary dies saving Sherlock, but life does not resume as normal. He does not forgive Sherlock for forsaking his vow — and he does not let him forget it.Very dark, and immensely fucked up: dubious consent, sexual violence, manipulation, abuse. Dark!John is a huge prick.





	Penance (What He Wants)

**Author's Note:**

> Now that Dubious has wrapped up in a happy ending, I guess I felt the need to torture myself with one dark, and frankly fucked up fic. 
> 
> Brought to you after a weekend of binge-watching season 4, and drinking a little too much wine. This is what happens when lilylashes is left alone for too long.
> 
> Comments/kudos are my 7%.
> 
> (Sorry in advance for how shitty this fic gets... Please heed ALL the trigger warnings!)
> 
> Xx lilylashes
> 
> PS: Do I have to warn that Dark!John is OOC, or is that obvious enough by the very fact that he is indeed, dark? OOC Sherlock reacting to OOC John, maybe?

Sherlock never thought much about his self worth.

He knows he is useful — he had saved more than his fair share of lives, and solved even more than his fair share of murders. There are actual dangerous criminals either behind bars, or no more for this world, thanks to him. He never once had to questions his usefulness.

He knows he is clever — ever since he was a small child, his teachers and professors had sung his praises for his big, beautiful brain, and lamented his lack of social skills. He had pulled top marks when he bothered to show up. He had taught himself Latin in two hours at the age of twelve. His cleverness had never been up for debate.

However, no one — not his teachers, not Mummy, not even Mycroft — had ever made mention of his worth. No one until John had made him wonder if his life might actually be worth something on its own merits, not just in relation to what it had to offer someone else.

And then... Mary.

Mary had made the ultimate stake on his life’s value when she leapt in front of a bullet to save it.

Mary had said that Sherlock’s life was worth more than Rosie having a Mum, or John having a wife.

And Sherlock has no idea how to even begin to make sense of what that means.

~*~

It is months before John can even bear to look at Sherlock.

Rosie was sent off to live with John’s Auntie in the country for the time being, because John couldn’t bring himself to look at her eyes ( _Mary’s eyes_ ), or her smile ( _Mary’s smile_ ), or her chubby little baby belly, because every time John looked at it, all he could see was the red that stained her mother’s shirt as the life bled out of her over his hands.

John spends his days staring into space, and his nights starting down either the neck of a bottle, or the barrel of his Sig. Though in his heart, he knows he could never do that to Rosie, he finds the weight of it confronting — in his hand, against his temple, tracing the line of his bottom lip.

The whiskey burns going down, but that pain is a welcomed relief compared to the ache in his chest that it replaces.

John is back at Baker Street. He didn’t move back in, exactly, it is more of.... One day he came over, and then never left. The flat he shared with Mary just seems too empty without her vibrant presence, and the walls seem to echo with her laughter, and their quiet conversations before bed. John sometimes feels as though his body is the same — vacant and without light, ever since she left.

Sherlock doesn’t know how to care for John, but he tries in the only ways he knows how — the ways he learned from watching John. He makes John tea, passes him blankets, and teaches himself to cook so he can ensure John is eating. The strange reversal of roles is something he refuses to ponder, because then he would have to wallow on the reason why he is now in that position, a position previously filled by...

John doesn’t even look at Sherlock, just accepts the foul concoctions Sherlock tries to pass off as tea, and the surprisingly delicious meals that materialise before him three times a day. He doesn’t thank Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t expect to be thanked.

It is months before John can even bear to look at Sherlock, but when he does, he is genuinely surprised at the level of rage he feels when he sees the concern and guilt in the detective’s eyes as he serves John his dinner. He turns to walk away, and John looks first at the food, then at Sherlock’s retreating form. Sherlock turns and catches John’s eye for the first time in months. His face is uncharacteristically hopeful, despite his best efforts to hide it.

John releases an animalistic growl, and hurls the plate at Sherlock.

Sherlock ducks. John stands, and stalks to his room.

Role reversal, indeed.

~*~

It is several more weeks before John reacts to Sherlock again. Life at Baker Street continues in its strange dance of mute lord and wretched manservant. Sherlock doesn’t mention that night, and John doesn’t apologise. He isn’t sure if this is because he is embarrassed, or because he isn’t sorry.

This time, it is Sherlock who tries to engage John.

The men are sat on the sofa, with Jeremy Kyle playing in the background. So desperate is Sherlock to get some sort of sight of the old John, that he has resigned himself to hours of crap telly every night, in the hopes that something on the screen might pique John’s interest. So far, nothing has.

That evening, either luckily, or unluckily, depending on who you ask, the guest is one of the late Connie Prince’s household staff. They are prattling on about the years-old affair between her brother, and Raoul, and how they found some new evidence of their hidden love. The story is irrelevant, but juicy, and the audience is hanging on every word. John is not.

Sherlock steals a glance at John’s stony face, and decides to try conversation. He swallows several times, madly racking his brain for something to say before he settles on, ‘You’d think after all this time, the world would have moved on from this spectacle. Not much Raoul can do to defend himself from prison, now is there?’

He glances hopefully in John’s direction, then averts his eyes when he sees no response.

A few heartbeats later, John clears his throat. Sherlock holds his breath. John speaks.

‘ _Piss off_.’

~*~

Later that night, Sherlock is doing the washing up — a task he has taken up since John has moved back in, not that John has shown any indication he notices. He is lost in thought, reliving the many arguments he and John had about this very chore. The last thing he expects is John’s presence in the kitchen, so it takes him several moments to realise that John is standing in the doorway.

‘John!’ Sherlock exclaims, surprised, ‘Do you need something?’

John doesn’t speak, only watches Sherlock, his expression unreadable. He takes a step into the room. Sherlock sets down the plate he was washing.

‘John...?’ He asks, unsure of what to say next. John takes another step. Sherlock dries his hands, and turns to face John. John takes another step.

The men are now mere feet from each other. It has been ages since they have been this close. John is breathing heavily. Sherlock is not breathing at all.

‘John,’ he says again. This time his voice is barely a whisper. John takes another step.

He is now right next to Sherlock. Sherlock can feel the force of John’s exhale.

Without any warning, Sherlock finds his back pressed hard into the edge of the sink, and John’s body flush against his. He inhales, and recognises the familiar scents of John — soap and tea and apricot jam — and then also the sour burn of alcohol, so strong on John’s breath. The smells get stronger as John’s mouth gets closer.

And then, half a heartbeat later, there it is — John’s mouth, tasting of tea, and toothpaste, and cheap whiskey — on Sherlock’s. There is the clash of teeth, Sherlock’s surprised yelp that is quickly drowned out by the possessive and angry noises coming from deep in John’s throat.

Sherlock doesn’t know how to react, so he just stands there, and lets John explore his mouth the way Sherlock once explored crime scenes — like an interloper whose opportunity might get snatched away at any moment. He is not careful, and soon Sherlock tastes blood when John nips his lip just a little too fiercely.

John pulls away then, and brings his hand to his mouth, wiping Sherlock’s blood from it. He stares at the crimson streak on the back of his hand as if he has never seen anything quite so confusing. Then, and only then does he finally meet Sherlock’s gaze.

The look on Sherlock’s face is torn between surprise, desire, and something else — fear maybe? John takes it in for a moment, waiting to feel guilt, but instead he feels the same rage he has felt whilst looking at Sherlock ever since that day in the aquarium. He spits to rid his mouth of the taste of Sherlock’s blood, not caring that it lands on the kitchen floor. He turns and walks purposefully away.

Sherlock watches him go, watches the door long after John has walked through it, and then slowly reaches for a towel to clean the kitchen floor.

~*~

The next day, Sherlock is cooking John’s breakfast in the kitchen, but the door to John’s room remains firmly shut. He fries eggs, toasts bread, and cooks sausages, all without any indication John is even still in the flat. He slices fruit, brews tea, and is just setting the table when finally he hears John’s door open. He freezes, and listens as John makes his way to the bathroom. The cabinet opens, the water runs, and Sherlock can very faintly hear the sounds of John brushing his teeth. The water turns off. John opens the bathroom door, and makes his way downstairs.

Sherlock watches him warily, but continues to set up John’s breakfast. John sits down, and takes the mug of tea in his hand, but does not drink. Sherlock sits, but does not speak. Years pass — or so it seems.

‘Sherlock,’ John says finally. Sherlock meets his gaze, but John’s face is as impassive as ever.

‘Sherlock,’ John says again, and this time he rearranges his face into something closer to remorse, but for the hardness in his eyes, ‘About last night...’

‘It’s fine, John,’ Sherlock assures him quickly, ‘It’s all fine. I don’t mind.’

‘Don’t mind?’ John echoes, his expression still a cruel mimicry of the real emotions he used to so readily display, ‘So do you mean you wouldn’t mind if it happened again?’

‘I.... I don’t... No, John. I wouldn’t mind,’ Sherlock stammers, because what else is he to say when asked something like that.

‘Good,’ John replies, and tucks into his eggs as though it’s the first meal he’s eaten in a week, ‘Very good.’

~*~

After Sherlock has cleaned up from breakfast, he goes to the living room to find John sitting in his chair, the newspaper open in his lap, but he was clearly not reading it. He does not lower it when Sherlock enters, but Sherlock detects the slightest hitch in John’s breathing. Tentatively, he goes to sit in his chair, across the way from John, but no sooner does he lower himself into his chair, does John haphazardly close his paper, and toss it carelessly to the floor. He glances over to Sherlock, and Sherlock meets his gaze uncertainly.

‘Sherlock,’ John says offhandedly, ‘Why don’t you come over here.’

Hesitantly, Sherlock stands again, and goes to stand before John. John regards him passively, then shifts in his seat. His hand drifts to his belt, and he stares pointedly at Sherlock. The detective’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, but when John sighs and brings his other hand to undo his belt and zip, Sherlock understands.

He removes his suit coat, then kneels awkwardly between John’s spread legs. Every movement feels stilted and wrong, but it seems like this is what John wants, and he is speaking to Sherlock again, so it must be okay. Maybe this will make it all okay.

John frees himself from his trousers and pants, sliding them down past his thighs. He is not small, and he is only partially erect. He grabs Sherlock by the wrist, and directs his right hand to the shaft. At the first touch from Sherlock, he groans, and guides Sherlock’s hand up and down the length until he has reached full hardness. His other hand reaches around to Sherlock’s head, and he grabs the detective by the hair, guiding him down to his now very hard cock.

‘John,’ Sherlock whispers frantically, ‘John, I’ve never-’ But his words are lost when John both rolls his hips, and forces Sherlock’s head down, now both his hands painfully entangled in Sherlock’s black curls.

Sherlock is momentarily stunned, his senses overwhelmed with the feel, sight, smell, taste, and sound of John fucking his mouth. John’s hands grip his hair painfully, and Sherlock can do little to react to the brutal thrusting.

His throat is violently assaulted by John’s cockhead, until he feels it give way, and John is granted entry into his throat. Immediately his gag reflex flares up, and he sputters and chokes. John relents just long enough for Sherlock to regain control of his body’s reaction, and catch his breath, and it begins again.

On and on, over and over, John sets the pace for this cruel routine, and Sherlock just does his best to accommodate him. Between moans and groans, John is growling ‘ _Take it, Sherlock, that’s it. Take this cock, you fucking prick. Oh, right there. Yeah, choke on it, just like that_ ,’ and Sherlock closes his eyes, wishing he could close his ears instead.

Finally, blessedly, John’s thrusts become even more erratic, and Sherlock knows the end is near. He does his best to follow John’s grunted instructions of ‘ _suck it harder, you bitch, squeeze my balls, no, with both hands, ah, yes, just like that, suck — I said **suck** — take it all the way down,_’ knowing that the more he did to please John, the sooner his friend would climax.

And he is right. John’s hands tighten even more painfully in his hair. He forces Sherlock’s nose all the way down into his pubic hair, and holds him there, despite the panicked spasms Sherlock’s body involuntarily throws itself into. Sherlock does his very best to resist the urge to clamp his teeth down on the intruder that seems to be actually choking the life out of him.

John comes with a howl, still not releasing Sherlock, so he gags on John’s semen, retching, and sputtering as it shoots into his mouth and up his nose. He does his best to swallow, but some dribbles from his mouth. When he is finally released, he coughs and gasps pathetically, sucking in air frantically, basically collapsing on the floor at John’s feet.

Sherlock glances up at John then, unsure of what to expect. He catches a look of disgust on John’s face before the air of passive indifference slams back into place. It breaks the heart he was so sure he didn’t have. He closes his eyes, and just breathes hard, trying to savour every molecule of oxygen that enters his lungs.

After a few moments, John nudges Sherlock with the toe of his boot, and says, ‘You should probably go clean yourself up. Your shirt is a right mess.’ He stands, pulls his pants and trousers back up, fastens the button and belt, and sits back down.

Sherlock opens his eyes, and uncurls himself from his position on the floor and realised John is right. His shirt is soaked with saliva, and the faintest traces of semen that spilled from his mouth. Shakily, he raises his hands to undo the buttons, and slips it off his shoulders. He turned to leave, pausing only when he hears John speak again.

‘That was nice, Sherlock,’ he says, reaching for his paper. He shakes it open again, and resumes his facade of reading it, ‘Quite nice.’

~*~

It only takes a few weeks for Sherlock to learn exactly how John prefers his fellatio. John still winds his hands painfully into Sherlock’s hair, but at this point, Sherlock suspects it is more for the feeling of dominance, than for the need to show Sherlock what to do. He has trained his gag-reflex not to react when John’s cock is forced down into his throat, so he can now deepthroat John for ages without feeling as though he will vomit. He still swallows when John comes in his mouth, though sometimes John prefers to come on his face, which leaves Sherlock feeling uncharacteristically humiliated and sad.

Sometimes now, John will strike Sherlock in the face either before, during, or after the blowjob. Sherlock likes this even less than when John paints his face with semen, but he doesn’t protest. He will never protest, because he is deserving of so much more than what John deals him.

Once or twice, John hits him hard enough to leave a mark, and Sherlock sports colourful bruises on his cheekbones for days afterwards. John steals furtive, almost guilty glances in Sherlock’s direction during that time, so Sherlock doesn’t mind it all that much. It is a vast improvement on the disgust and indifference he had become accustomed to.

After weeks, or a month, or so, of near-daily blowjobs, John takes the next step with Sherlock. Sherlock supposes he should not have been too surprised, because it would be unreasonable for him to assume John would be satisfied with oral sex for the rest of his life, but he did think that he would be offered a little more warning.

Sherlock is attentively sucking John’s cock in the living room one afternoon, when suddenly John yanks Sherlock’s head up painfully, his cock springing free of Sherlock’s mouth with a wet-sounding pop. Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and he looks up at John uncertainly. John stands, still not releasing Sherlock’s hair, so Sherlock stands as well as best he can.

With one hand still tangled in Sherlock’s curls, John uses the other to make quick work of Sherlock’s belt and zip. Sherlock makes no move to neither deter nor assist John. Roughly, John works Sherlock’s trousers down his hips, and lets them fall to the floor, before he slides his hand inside the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers. He is still gripping Sherlock’s head, so the detective is bent into an uncomfortable stooped position, forced to look down at his own crotch. He is not hard at all.

John notices this, and for the first time ever, takes Sherlock in his hand. Sherlock yelps in surprise, but does not stop John from stroking him. The sensation is almost too overwhelming. No one has ever touched Sherlock like this, and truthfully, Sherlock has only touched himself in that way a handful of times before. He had always regarded his body as transport for his magnificent mind, so only on the rare occasions when the physical needs became too great a distraction did he actually succumb to pleasuring himself.

But this was different — this was _John_. His John, even though he hadn’t truly been his John for years — before the aquarium, before Mary, before the fall. Back then, there were times when Sherlock wondered if John might someday be ‘his’ John, and they might explore these kinds of touches together, but in his fantasies, it was never like this. When Sherlock imagined it, they had been equals, and the touches had been gentle, not impatient.

Despite all this, after a few brutal tugs, Sherlock finds himself becoming hard. A few more moments, a few more stokes pass, and Sherlock is leaking precome. John runs his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, and actually moans when he feels it leaking. He works the fluid down Sherlock’s shaft, and over his hand. His hand is now well wet, and Sherlock is panting. John yanks Sherlock’s boxers down, and actually shoves Sherlock down onto the sofa. He kicks Sherlocks trousers and boxers out of the way, and takes Sherlock’s shirt in both hands, and pulls. Buttons fly in all directions as it opens suddenly, revealing Sherlock’s broad chest. John forcefully pulls it the rest of the way off Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, and drops it carelessly to the ground.

John brings his hand up to Sherlocks mouth, and extends two fingers to the detective.

‘ _Suck_ ,’ he commands in his Captain John Watson voice, and Sherlock has no choice but to obey. He swirls his tongue around John’s fingers, and sucks dutifully, not sure of what is going to happen next.

He should have known, though, and maybe he would have, if he had been in full control of his capacities. John pushes Sherlock’s knees into his chest, and brings his hand down to Sherlock’s arse, and begins working the fingers into him. It feels like an invasion; there is nothing loving or attentive about the act, and Sherlock wonders why John is bothering at all. He is barely able to accommodate one finger before John adds a second — and then a third, which Sherlock was never told to lubricate. Sherlock grits his teeth, and counts to a hundred in his head in German to keep from crying out, not that he thinks that would have any effect on John at this point.

Roughly, John pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s arse, and lines himself up. There is no lube, but he spits in his palm, and rubs it on his cock. Sherlock knows this is not adequate lubricant, and that he has not be adequate prepared. John presses in, and Sherlock feels himself stretching brutally. He does not protest.

Inch by painful inch, John enters Sherlock, and this time, Sherlock cannot keep himself from crying out in pain. He was right though; John does not stop, only rocks his hips harder. He buries himself in Sherlock to the hilt, and holds himself there for a long moment. Both men are panting. Sherlock turns his head away from John, and brings his hand to his mouth. His teeth clamp down on the fleshy part of his hand between his forefinger and thumb. He bites ferociously, and tries to keep from screaming as John draws himself out, and then slams home again. He is only marginally successful.

He looks up to John’s face, desperate for some sort of reassurance that what is taking place is an act of love, but instead finds the same indifferent, primal expression that has been there ever since he returned to Baker Street. He fights back the urge to sob, and squeezes his eyes shut. John rocks his hips harder and harder, and Sherlock feels as though John is trying to fuck him through the cushions of the sofa. He releases his hand from his mouth when he tastes blood, and instead tries to grit his teeth, but a high pitched keening comes from his throat, and he is helpless to stop it.

John doesn’t notice, only grips Sherlocks hips harder, bringing them to meet his own. He grunts and groans. Sherlock tries not to whimper.

Sherlock heard once that anal sex between men can be pleasant for the receiver if the penetrator aims high enough to hit the prostate, but clearly Sherlock’s pleasure is not John’s priority.

John pulls out suddenly, and without speaking, grabs Sherlock by the waist, and flips him roughly so that he is on all fours on the sofa. He takes another second to line himself up again, and resumes fucking Sherlock, this time from behind. He takes one hand and grips Sherlock by the back of the neck, forcing Sherlock’s face down into the cushions of the sofa. The fabric is rough against Sherlock’s cheek; there are sure to be brush burns there tomorrow.

John is more vocal now, so Sherlock is sure the end is in sight. John fucks into Sherlock in earnest. The spit-lube is long dried, but John’s thrusts are still eased by some sort of slick, so Sherlock is fairly certain he bleeding freely.

Sherlock is trying to hypothesise at what point in his anal passage he might have torn, so what happens next takes him completely by surprise.

John has released Sherlock’s neck while he fucks him casually — almost gently — until suddenly Sherlock feels something hard and heavy slam into the base of his skull. John moans throatily, as Sherlock shakes his head in confusion, unsure of what just happened. He is still dazed from the first blow, when another one comes crashing down, causing his breath to actually stop, and he blacks out momentarily.

When he comes to again, John is still fucking him, though now the thrusts are coming faster and more erratic. John is about to come. He tries to push back against John’s thrusts to complete the movement, when for a third time, something comes slamming hard into the back of his skull, and he cries out in pain.

At that very moment, John comes loudly, collapsing on top of Sherlock, one hand pulling his hair, the other still curled into the fist that just struck Sherlock in the head. Sherlock lays limply on the sofa, not speaking, not moving, still half-concussed from the force with which John had punched him.

It takes a few minutes, but finally John hauls himself up off of Sherlock, and slips his now limp cock from Sherlock’s very, very sore arse. He pushes himself up, using Sherlock as a brace, taking no notice when Sherlock cries out in pain from being used thus. Instead, he awkwardly pats Sherlock on the head, and reaches for something to clean himself off with. It just so happens that the thing he finds is Sherlock’s shirt.

‘Oh, here you go, Sherlock,’ John says once he has thoroughly wiped himself off on Sherlock’s button-up. He tosses it down at Sherlock, not even noticing that it lands on the detective’s face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise that was yours,’ but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

‘It... It’s fine, John,’ Sherlock replies automatically, because what else is he going to say. He pulls the soiled shirt off his face, and glumly realises that there is no way he will be able to salvage it, now that it is covered in sweat, blood, and semen, the buttons long gone.

John is redressing quickly, not looking at Sherlock. He is retying his shoes, and making his way to the door before he speaks again.

‘I hope you don’t mind that bit at the end there,’ he says with a yawn, and a stretch, ‘It’s something I always wanted to try, but never had the chance to. I figured you wouldn’t object.’

Sherlock shakes his head mutely, and John gives him a cursory nod before he walks out the door without another word. Sherlock wracks his brain for a few moments for the phrase that is just out of reach until he remembers a case he once took in which a particularly violent boyfriend had killed his lover by striking them in the head during sex. John had called him reckless and selfish and dangerous.

 _Donkey punch_ , he thinks bitterly, the sex act that supposedly feels amazing for the one doing the hitting, but is immensely dangerous for the one being hit. That’s what John had done ‘at the end there’, because apparently it didn’t much matter to him that anymore that it can result in ‘injury, memory loss, or death’, not when the one he's fucking is Sherlock.

Sherlock ponders this for a long moment, and then folds into himself as small as he can. Though his arse and skull ache something furious, he finds himself distraught over something else altogether.

He thinks of the state of his relationship with John, and the way the doctor looks at him while they are engaged in their sexual activity, and another phrase comes to mind.

 _Hatefucking_.

In the many times he had imagined sex with John, he had secretly referred to it as making love. He had imagined it would be slow, and passionate, and that all the things he’d never been able to say would somehow be made clear when he gave himself over to John in every way. Instead, John had done his best to disregard Sherlock in every way, which made the detective feel oddly cheap, vulnerable, and the very opposite of valued.

Sherlock curls his body into a fetal position, wraps his arms around his knees, and finally, he weeps.

~*~

Sex with John comes regularly now, and is often times so miserable that Sherlock finds himself thinking wistfully of the days when John was satisfied with just a blowjob. On the best days, it is uncomfortable, because John never takes much care to prepare Sherlock, or to use an adequate lubricant. On the worst days, it is downright painful, and Sherlock spends the next few days in bed, leaving only to cook and care for John. These days, he still offers John oral sex, and kneels stiffly between John’s thighs. Neither he, nor John acknowledge the tears that stream from his eyes on these days.

John likes to dominate Sherlock, and Sherlock is quietly submissive in a way he has never been with anyone before. They explore whips and chains and bondage — Sherlock doesn’t really enjoy any of it, but it was John’s idea, so he agrees. John even gives him a safe word in case it gets to be too much. _Norbury_.

Sherlock knows that word will never pass his lips. Deep down, he thinks John knows it too.

Sherlock doesn’t really know what to make of his current situation, he only knows that sex is the only time he feels close to John anymore, so that alone is enough to keep him coming back for more. That, coupled with the ever-present guilt over Mary’s death, and he knows he will never refuse John anything he asks of him. The sex and the pain and the humiliation are his penance, beads to be counted off his rosary.

He hopes one day he may be forgiven.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry again!


End file.
